“Kindly make arrangements to catch it,” said Lord Peter, throwing off his bath-robe and trailing away with it into his bedroom. “And, Parker—if you have nothing else to do you might get hold of Levy’s secretary and look into that little matter of the Peruvian oil.”
Lord Peter took with him, for light reading in the train, Sir Reuben Levy’s diary. It was a simple, and in the light of recent facts, rather a pathetic document. The terrible fighter of the Stock Exchange, who could with one nod set the surly bear dancing, or bring the savage bull to feed out of his hand, whose breath devastated whole districts with famine or swept financial potentates from their seats, was revealed in private life as kindly, domestic, innocently proud of himself and his belongings, confiding, generous and a li
